


a study in bookshop magic

by brevity_ofwit



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Enjoy either way, Gen, M/M, This isn't really a story, and i could only think of Zira's bookshop, and i wrote it half wine drunk and depressed, but enjoy either way, just something i wrote when i needed to escape, like reeeeaaaaaally short, so if that bit shines thru then im to blame, this is a really short musing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 09:44:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19867549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brevity_ofwit/pseuds/brevity_ofwit
Summary: There’s something to be said about unsuspecting places. The magic that comes alive in the shadows and overlooked corners of our minds. How it captivates the child in us and satiates humanity’s intense hunger for the fantastic. That’s why, for better or worse, A.Z. Fell’s shop on a little corner in Soho becomes the haven of so much more than novelty book connoisseurs.--a study in escaping to the dusty corners of Aziraphale's little 'shop.





	a study in bookshop magic

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this wine-drunk and depressed, and also without pants, which is not entirely pertinent but something i felt you should all know. it's like, maybe four paragraphs of wax poetic on old bookshops and meeting someone you suspect to be an immortal figure existing on a human plane, and where you interact at the merging of these two realities. i don't know if it's entirely coherent but nonetheless, enjoy this second person rambling.

There’s something to be said about unsuspecting places. The magic that comes alive in the shadows and overlooked corners of our minds. How it captivates the child in us and satiates humanity’s intense hunger for the fantastic. That’s why, for better or worse, A.Z. Fell’s shop on a little corner in Soho becomes the haven of so much more than novelty book connoisseurs. 

His earthy little bookshop smells of centuries on the road. Something about the yellowed pages, the stacks on stacks of deep, rich history and adventure. Regulars say the atmosphere makes it feel like you’ve stepped into a calmer, safer plane of existence, where the ghouls of whatever life you seek to escape cannot reach. Like you’ve left behind the gritty streets of Soho and entered a battered dirt-road city in a forgotten land. Time appears frozen at precisely just before evening, trapped between a lazy afternoon and the fading sky as the day begins its final act, warm honey-light drizzling into the snug isles and catching dust particles mid-dance. 

And the way the bookkeeper seems to have already sensed you’d be coming, the way he stands like he’s been expecting you for far longer than it took for you to decide to pop in. He looks panic-stricken at your wandering hands, watches with thinly-veiled fury as you finger the spines of his most prized collections, but all that tension drains away when he learns you have no intention of purchasing today. At that, he slips away quietly to leave you to your thoughts. Light tinkering from the backroom reveals he’s gone to make a drink, cocoa if your nose is anything to go by. And then, quite suddenly and frighteningly, a great black snake slithers past your feet. The serpent works his way around the shelves with practised ease, and you trail behind quietly, curious, captivated by the shiny scales and unbothered demeanour. It climbs up a short stack of books and up onto a rustic rocking chair, backed into a nook and overlooking a small window that really oughtn't to be architecturally possible. The light that streams in is dim and somehow as yellow as the books strewn around, but the snake coils on the cushions beneath it and you watch it as it sighs contently and falls into a comfortable slumber. The elderly shopkeeper has reappeared, taken up residence in another deep armchair you hadn’t seen just inches from the first. He’s sipping on his drink and reading from a well-loved copy of one of Wilde’s works. You don’t recognise the cover, but it seems impolite to ask. It begins to feel like you’ve stepped into a scene of hushed intimacy and a private, age-long courting, so you back away. Perplexing, the sudden feeling, a buzz at the back of your brain hinting toward the idea that maybe the shopkeeper is more than his books and his companion more than its obsidian scales. And then, just as you turn down a different aisle, one impossibly long and full of more dust than words, the inkling is gone and you’re wrapped up in the titles of worlds you’d never heard of. 

The day passes much faster than you’d like, or at least it feels as it does because when you’ve said your goodbyes to a lovely series and bid the shopkeeper and his companion farewell, the day is still young and the sun has not shifted since last you saw. You dare a glance back at the bookshop and wonder at the discreet magic hidden behind its oaken door. Maybe you walk the rest of the day with new vigour, with an extra bounce, with a deeper appreciation for the mundane and unsuspecting.


End file.
